Speak not to me of heroes nor deeds of daring do,
for every tale that you unfold brings tears of sorrow too,
the mother and the widow that are left to grieve alone,
have little time for medals and flesh as cold as stone.

The warmth of their loved ones the bugles called away,
was lost and gone forever as they fell amid the fray.
As generation begets generation it seems we never learn,
as we send the flower of our land to fight and not return.

But perhaps our future sons will look back on the past,
and tally up the losses that we on icons cast,
then having checked the columns of generations lost,
hang up the sword of vengeance, numbed at the terrible cost.

So let the names of heroes that fall from children’s lips,
be not those of admirals that sailed in fighting ships,
nor those of dashing generals leading men in fearsome fight
till the shadow of death grants them, the sleep of endless night,
and only castles that need be built be cast in seaside sand,
and let brotherhood not hatred, unite our troubled land.

And may the heroes of tomorrow be the poets of today,
who have the courage to cry aloud, that war is not the way.
When the clenched fist of anger becomes a helping hand,
perhaps then and only then, will the tools of war be banned.
But poets are but dreamers, and I fear when I awake,
that history will repeat itself, tell me why, for pities sake.